Marfa

There is always a heartfelt yearning this time of year to head to the first place I called home:  Marfa.

It seems like only yesterday when, as newlyweds, I spent several weeks trying to sell Kurt on my wonderful idea of spending Christmas in Marfa.  The conversation started with something like, “I hate Texas,” which, growing up in Arkansas during the era of the Southwest Conference was a fairly conventional attitude.

“Ah, but you haven’t been to Marfa!”

“What’s so great about it?  What’s there to see?”

In spite of the aforementioned enthusiasm, this question rendered me speechless because there are no glitzy attractions or amusement parks.  There are no fancy malls or shopping centers.  In fact, this little town with its quiet streets, barren landscape and arid climate seemingly has little to offer the average tourist.

“You just have to trust me on this.”

And, since he loved me dearly, on Christmas Eve 1989, we set out across the state of Texas to what I will always believe is “God’s Country”.

I’m not sure how it happened, whether it was the brilliant blue sky; an incredible background….

…to some amazing architecture, which is commonplace in this small town.

Or perhaps it was the openness, a blank canvas where doubts, worries, and concerns merely floated away, allowing ample room for entertainment of hopes and dreams, coupled with a bit of peace and joy.

Whatever IT was, within a day or two, Kurt was hooked, already planning a return trip.  Since then, we’ve made more than a dozen return trips!

A few weeks ago, when a couple visiting Gallery B  told us of their plans for a holiday visit to this West Texas town, a smile stretched across my face as a flood of wonderful memories showered my conscience.

“What’s the attraction?  What can we do there?”

Once again, I had little to offer, other than, “Trust me, you’ll love it!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

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